A Group That Almost Became Historic
by LusayLu182
Summary: Enjolras was a charming young man, capable of being intimidating. Combeferre represented its philosophy. Jean Prouvaire was addicted to love. Feully was a fan maker. Courfeyrac had youthful animation. Bahorel was one of good humor. Bosset was a cheery fellow who was unlucky. Joly was a young hypochondriac. Grantaire was the skeptic. Together they become a family.


**Lusay: Hello, Les Misérables fans! Since you guys were so accepting of me last time I decided to start another story- already. So... About this story, each chapter will be devoted to one member of the Amis for one period of their life. There may be some overlapping in the future due to that. The first chapters will he before they even meet, so please be patient with me. XD Another thing is that this is based on a mixture of the novel, the film, the musical, and the anime. The descriptions are all taken from the anime, cuz I really liked nearly everyone's figure from it. And lastly, I have taken the liberty of creating first names for those whom Victor Hugo doesn't give to us. Simply because in these first chapters, they are young and their family would have, of course, referred to them by their first name. And as children, they usually go by the first man me publicly. Take Gavroche for example. The name I chose for Enjolras is Alain, which means harmony, stone, or noble and handsome. I thought that fit him well. Anywho! I think I rambled enough. Enjoy and review!**

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**A Group That Almost Became Historic  
The Enjolras Story**  
_Chapter one: As Stubborn As They Come_  
_Year: 1815_

Madame Enjolras sits on the comfortable red velvety sofa in the parlor waiting for her maid, Alice, to bring her afternoon tea. Her soft blue eyes are set on the large window overlooking the courtyard where her young son is playing with some boys from school.

Alain is easy to distinguish with his long blond ponytail. They must be playing war games again, as it always is with boys their age. War is a fantasy to them, where heroes rise and wrong is executed. They do not consider the pain, death, and suffering fighting causes. It doesn't matter for the present, Madame Enjolras decides. They are only children. She continues to watch her son, a proud spark in her eyes as she notices he appears to be the leader of his side of the battle. He runs around with his gun- which is really a stick- giving orders to the boys in his command. They obey instantly, pushing the "enemy forces" to the right, then back down the courtyard.

Madame Enjolras smiles fondly, tucking a strand of loose golden hair behind her ear. Looking at Alain, she continually notices how much he looks like her. He has the same light, sunshiny golden curls and her ocean blue eyes. His smile is almost identical to her's, adorable dimples appear on both cheeks at his grin. He has her grace, her caring personality. He is also a lot like his father, who is a handsome but stern man of law. Alain has his father's eyebrows, when he is serious, they grow thick, resting themselves low on his brow, right above his eyes. He shares that high forehead that almost is as vast as the sky. He has the same jaw, as well, firm and well set. Most of all, he has that familiarly strong personality. Monsieur Enjolras was one of the most stubborn people on Earth, but his son could challenge him in a contest for persistence. Whenever Alain got into trouble, it would be hours before he was finished with his father. He would argue his point until forced to stop. "He will make a wonderful lawyer," Madame Enjolras had told her husband the last time the incident had occurred. "If he can get himself through a university with that rebellious mindset. He won't last a week with his headstrong attitude. I was stubborn too at that age, as I still am. But I did know I was to respect authority and how to control my stubbornness." Monsieur Enjolras had shaken his head.

Although she loves her son, her husband had spoken truly. Alain always did his own thing, in his own time, and in his own way. If his mind was made up that he was in the right, he would never back down. Watching the game he was playing now, Madame Enjolras can not help but notice he was on the revolutionary's side. It might not matter much, rebels are another one of those subjects that fascinate young minds. However, her husband might find it suspicious if he knew what was going on. He often stated that everything his son did had a purpose, even if it was simply picking his clothes for the day.

"Here's your tea, Madame," Alice says, walking over with a tray.

Madame Enjolras takes her cup gracefully, setting it on her lap in a distracted manner. "Thank you. Alice, do we have any more Strawberry Savarins? It's starting to get late and the boys will need to leave soon. But I want them to have a snack before they go."

Alice nods. "Of course, Madame. I'll get some out right away."

After she leaves, Madame Enjolras also stands, setting her untouched tea down on the coffee table. She walks over to the window, placing a hand lightly against the glass, a soft smile on her face. Alain is growing so fast, already nine years old. It seems only yesterday he was a tiny infant, totally dependent on his mother. Now he was a rambunctious, energetic young boy. How fast time goes by.

Alice walks back in with another tray, this one loaded with the dessert and some milk for the boys. "Do you wish for me to take this out to the courtyard, Madame?" She asks, blinking her brown eyes.

Madame Enjolras shakes her soft curls. "Thank you, Alice, but I will bring it to them personally." She turns and walks over to her elderly housekeeper, gently taking the tray. She makes her way to the foyer and out the front door. She places the tray on the large outdoor table, setting the plates, glasses, and silverware out for the eight boys present.

Alain's voice can be heard from around the corner behind the white flowers of the European bird cherry tree. "Vive la République!" The cheers and laughter of his "comrades" follow his triumphant cry. Madame Enjolras masks her bittersweet smile, hoping this admiration her son held for revolutionaries was only a phase. It would pass, she prayed. Otherwise it might not go well. Not with her husband, or the government themselves when that time came, a time she hates to think of.

"Alain!" She calls out. "Bring your friends over to the outdoor table for a treat!"

In an instant, seven boys are surrounding her, pushing each other for a seat. "Careful, boys," she warns, helping one who was getting shoved out of the way over to a chair. "There is enough for everyone."

Alain finally walks up the path, a bright smile on his face. "Mother! We won!" He says excitedly, thrusting his stick gun into the air.

Three other boys, who must've been his "compatriots" cheer through bits of Savarins. The other four simply grin and continue eating.

Madame Enjolras smiles and runs her fingers through his ruffled hair. His "battle" must have been hard, for his golden locks are more disordered than usual, his clothes are a bit dirty, and dirt mixed with sweat is smeared across his left cheek. His mother doesn't care though. The spark in his eyes force her to forget all about his untidy appearance. The happiness of her only child is her everything.

Alain makes his way to the table and sits down at the head, raising his glass of milk. He swallows it in almost one gulp before turning to his dessert. The boys attempt conversation, but they are hungry and exhausted from their game. Madame Enjolras makes note to have Alice prepare a large supper for her growing boy.

After a minute or two, one boy stands up. "I must go home now. We should play again some other time, Alain. Next time your little "République" won't succeed. And thank you, Madame Enjolras, for allowing me to come." Six other similar farewells echo as the boys left, soon leaving Madame Enjolras alone with her son.

"Did you have fun today?" She asks softly, clearing up the dishes.

Alain nods. "It was excellent! You should've seen how we drew back the enemy forces!"

His mother chuckles. "I saw it from the window," she admits. "I must say, you make a wonderful little general."

Her son brightens at the compliment. "It was fun," he says, yawning.

Madame Enjolras lifts the tray in one hand and offers the other to Alain. "Come. You could use a nice warm bath and some clean clothes. Afterward, you can have something to eat, then it's off to bed! You've had a long day."

He slips off the chair and takes her hand, yawning again. "But I'm not tired," he protests. "I'm enervated."

Laughing, Madame Enjolras leads him back into the house, where she gives the dirty tray to Alice. "Enervated is another word for tired, Love," she says, kneeling down to his hight and tapping the end of his nose. "Wherever did you hear that word?"

Alain shrugs. "Monsieur Archambault always says we make him enervated," he explains, speaking of his teacher.

"I'm sure you do," his mother laughs. "Come. You need to get cleaned up. You look like you really did go through a battle."

Alain's blue eyes light up and he laughs a little.

* * *

Later that evening, Alain is sitting in his bed, an open book on his lap. His white nightshirt lies loose around his neck and his hair is undone, curls tumbling from his head down until they nearly touched his shoulders. Light from the candle on his night table cast flickering shadows across the pages of the book, lighting up the words just the same as the words themselves light up his young heart until he was certain it was to be engulfed in fire. The book he is so interested in is a law book he had taken from his father's library. His father, being the lawyer he was, had several books on the subject. Alain had quietly removed this one while Monsieur Enjolras was out earlier in the day. He isn't sure who wrote it, and the title doesn't catch his eye. However, the contents of the unidentified book fill the boy with deep understanding. Even at his young age the words used are no problem for him. He has always been good with words.

Someone knocks at his door softly. Hiding the book under the bedsheets, he calls out, "Come in."

The door opens and Madame Enjolras steps in, his father in tow. Although the strong personalities cause father and son to argue almost constantly, even about small things, they love each other tremendously. Monsieur Enjolras is a busy man, but he always comes to say goodnight to his son, and on occasion, will bring him for a walk in the parks nearby.

He now seats himself in the chair placed by a close desk, facing the bed.  
Madame Enjolras sits down on the edge of the bed, taking her son's hand in her own.

"Did you have a good day, son?" His father begins.

Alain nods. "It was nice," he says, more relaxed about it than he had been a few hours ago. "Thank you, Mother, for allowing my friends to come over." He turns to Madame Enjolras.

She smiles, dimples appearing on either side of her face. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," she says.

"Anything important you feel you should tell us?" His father asks. He doesn't mean it in a way that should make Alain tremble in fear that he was in trouble. It was simply his father's way of asking what the highlights of the day were. Madame Enjolras had tried to tell him to change is wording, but in his stubbornness, the suggestion had been refused. It took Alain several times before he finally got used to the question.

He nods now, thoughtfully. "I've been thinking a lot," he says. "You asked me last week if I had any idea what I want to do with my life once I get older. You said it was an important question, so I can figure out now what my educational priorities should be." He removes the book from its hiding place and shows it to his father. "I started reading this today. It makes a lot of sense and I agree with almost everything. I think I would like to be a lawyer, like you."

Madame Enjolras gives his hand a squeeze. Her son had just made an important decision, one that would determine who he was to be in society. She is proud of him.

Her husband smiles brightly, thrilled that his son desired to follow in his footsteps. "That is wonderful!" He exclaims, standing up. "You've made a good choice. I'm proud of you," he says, roughly yet lovingly ruffling his son's curls.

Alain quickly tries to smooth his hair with his hands.

"And another thing," his father continues. "When are you planning on getting a haircut? It's getting too long."

His son sends him a firm look. "I think my hair is fine, thank you," he says haughtily. "It's not even touching my shoulders-yet."

"You're going to look like a woman sooner or later," Monsieur Enjolras persists, half jokingly.

"I will not. I have a masculine build."

"Masculine? You're nine years old. You have a child's build."

Alain pauses. "I was speaking of the future. By the time my hair grows long enough to look like a woman's, I'll be old enough to be nearly a man. No one would ever think I was female."

Monsieur Enjolras gives his son a queer look. "I believe you just like to argue."

His wife laughs. "I wonder who he gets that from?"

Father and son look from her to each other, before laughing together.


End file.
